American Idol tour is going to be coming to Nashville, and Fred has agreed to go with me. Whee! Tickets go on sale Saturday morning at 10:00, and you’d better believe my ass is going to be parked in front of the computer come 9:59! When we were watching the final show on Thursday evening, I said to Fred “It would be cool if the tour was going to come somewhere around here!”, and he agreed. I figured that there was no way they’d be coming to Huntsville, but I thought they might hit Atlanta. Of course Atlanta’s 5 hours from here, and there’s no way Fred would have agreed to drive 5 hours to see them in concert (the bastard), so imagine my delight when I checked out the page this morning and saw that they were coming to Nashville. I’m WAY too excited about this. * * * Thursday morning around 6:30, I was laying sound asleep, hugging my pillow and having a happy dream, about which I recall no details. Suddenly, in the midst of said happy dream, I heard the very clear sound of someone choking, possibly to death, and I reacted by waking immediately, and sitting straight up. In the bathroom, Fred was leaning over the sink. He turned and looked at me. “What?” he said. “What the FUCK was that?!” I said, placing a hand over my chest to still the racing heart within. He laughed long and loud. It appears he’d farted again. * * * This is pretty neat, if you’re looking for someplace to send your charity funds. * * * I finished Mary Karr’s Cherry the other night (Heh), and while I liked most of the book, the last 20 pages or so just about put me to sleep. They consisted of drug stories (“And then the moon turned into an orange waterfall!”), and I ended up skimming most of it. I think that, much like dreams, the only person interested in hearing the myriad details of drug stories are the people involved. I mean, hearing that your boyfriend’s ass turned into a goat and brayed at you (heh. Fred’s ass brays at me all the time.) is amusing, but hearing every fucking detail of what happened from the moment you placed a tab of acid under your tongue to the moment you woke up hungover (do you wake up hungover from acid?) is just deadly boring. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe because my experience with drugs consists of one (1) drag off a joint when I was 17, I just don’t understand the allure of hearing the fascinating sequence of events between the deciding to leave the club and actually leaving the club. But I doubt it. As I recall, back when I often got drunk (I got drunk more before I turned 21 than I have since – so much for being carded, eh?) the only time other drunk people were interesting to me was when I, myself, was also drunk. When you’re totally sober (this could just be me), drunk people are a pain in the fucking ass, all loud and hard to corral. I had a party once in my very first apartment, attended by a lot of Marines, and when drunk, they would NOT shut the fuck up, nor would they go where I wanted them to go. You can imagine how pleased my landlady (who was a bitch, and also lived on the premises) was. I, of course, become better-looking and much more charming, when I’m drunk. * * * Y’all, I didn’t actually watch the Video Music Awards last week (or whenever they were), because – well – I don’t usually watch them anymore. I am, after all, a hundred years old, and I don’t understand the music you whippersnappers listen to these days. But I was checking out Kim’s blog, and I was taken aback by this horrid, horrid picture of Axl Rose. Man, what the HELL happened to Axl? He was never the studliest hunk on the block, but he looks like he was in a horrible accident and had his entire face reconstructed or something. My god, he looks SO bad. Do you suppose he knows how bad he looks, or is he surrounded by people who constantly tell him “Lookin’ hot, A! Lookin’ real hot!” ? God help me. * * * And speaking of horrid things, I watched The Anna Nicole Show last night while I cross-stitched after Fred had gone to bed. Since the show first aired, I’ve been meaning to watch it, but it’s on Sunday nights, and I kept forgetting to tape it until this past Sunday. All over the place, I’ve been reading about what a horrible show it is, and all that’s done is make me more interested in watching it. My god. My eyes! My eyes! It was the worst piece of crap I’ve ever seen, between the boobs-falling-out-of-the-shirt, the constant screams for her dog, Sugarpie, and the slurred voice. Plus, Anna, I did NOT want to know that you needed to go home to masturbate because you hadn’t masturbated that morning. I know you think you’re being all cute and sexy and in-your-face, but honestly? You’re just grossing me out, because I don’t want to have to think about that, not that there’s anything wrong with masturbating, but when it comes to combining the thought of masturbation with you doing it, well, I had to go scrub my brain with bleach for three hours after hearing that. And I still haven’t removed the horror of seeing you splay-legged in the tub of your dreams. My eyes! * * * And speaking further of horrid things, someone hit my page by doing a google search on Angelina Jolie tongue kissing Billy Bob. I don’t even want to know… * * * 1. What is your biggest pet peeve? Why? Road ragers. Because you’re going to get there eventually – what the hell is the point of screaming and yelling and pounding on your steering wheel? All it does is make you look like an asshole, and if you’re behind ME doing it, chances are good I’m going to slow down a tad. (I’m a reformed road rager, by the way) Actually, road ragers fit neatly into the larger category of “People who think they’re more important than they are, and think I should give a shit.” 2. What irritating habits do you have? According to Fred, grinding my teeth while I’m sleeping is the most irritating habit I have. He says, and I quote “You’re going to grind your teeth away and then you’ll look like one of those pygmies.” I have no idea what that means. He also says that the grinding sounds like the sound a catfish makes. Squeak, squeak, squeak. I come from a family of teeth-grinders. 3. Have you tried to change the irritating habits or just let them be? I actually do have a mouthpiece that I got from the dentist several years ago. I’m supposed to wear it while I sleep, but I don’t because it makes me gag. 4. What grosses you out more than anything else? Why? Dogs munching on cat poo. GODDAMN is that nasty, and they always do it directly in front of a window so that you can see the show. And then they come breathe in your face directly afterward. Gah. 5. What one thing can you never see yourself doing that other people do? Speak in front of a large audience. * * * And, to round out the entry, cat pictures! Miz Poo keeps watch at the top of the stairs. Spot and Tubby try to pretend they haven’t been snuggling and grooming each other. Spanky looooooves to sleep, and he loves even more to sleep in my chair. Zzzzzzz…

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Previously 2001: I don’t use the “c” word lightly, y’all. 2000: No entry.]]>